Yume
by Eclectify
Summary: (IbuKami) Shinji always dreams in shades of grey...of rain...and of Akira.


Title: Yume (Ficlet Two in the "Mosaics" series)  
Pairing: Akira/Shinji  
Disclaimer: Konomi Takeshi owns thems...I only wish I did.  
Notes: Another Ficlet in my quickly growing Fudomine Ficlet Series. Thanks to yamiduo once again...she came up with the name for this series of ficlets.

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Shinji dreams in shades of grey.

It is a tableau of monochrome that doesn't so much resemble a black and white photograph as much as it does a wet newspaper, sodden and smeared, the black ink melting and bleeding into stained white pages until nothing is discernable from everything else. Backgrounds fade away, faces blur and one thing is as equally unimportant as the next. Whether they be memories of a time long ago, past events that should be forgotten, can't be forgotten, events yet to come or fantasies of wishes unfulfilled, all are drained of the life of colour. There is no detail in this world of greyscale that Shinji conjures when he closes his eyes and he barely recognises the dull charcoal of the tree leaves, the washed-out grey of the clouds or the ominous dark of the sky.

But it always rains.

Sometimes it is a gentle shower, droplets falling from a silver sky and only barely kissing skin, fabric and earth before fading out of existence. The sun will shine often in these dreams, rays of light that never warm the skin despite their known heat.

Sometimes it is a violent hurricane, stinging spears of liquid that tear at the skin until his body is so numb and broken Shinji wonders if he has truly forgotten what it is like to feel anything but the piercing frigidness of the icy rain.

It is a steady downpour this time, sheets of rain blanketing his world of grey and leaving nothing untouched. Strands of sodden black cling to pale cheeks, too wet to fly about his face as he moves with usual grace. The tennis ball is a water-logged bullet, slamming against the brick of the wall with a harsh slap only to return to racket and be sent on its way yet again. His shirt melts against his skin, too heavy with collected water and a constant weight hindering his movements as he sends the ball back to hit the wall.

Top spin.

Back spin.

Top spin.

Water spirals from the grey covered rubber, as Shinji's racket slices it unrelentingly, never ceasing. He can barely see from the droplets collecting in his eyes, spilling over his cheeks in some mockery of tears. His muscles burn...the only warmth he feels in this memory turned dream...and protest their use in this persistent rain.

They are silenced with pure determination.

"Idiot."

The voice doesn't register at first. Shinji's dreams are rarely visited by people and only a handful ever return. So lost in the dance between racket, ball and wall and drowning in the ever present rain he doesn't turn to meet the intruder into his world.

"Oi. Shinji. Get out the rain. I'm not dragging your sorry arse home when you pass out."

Shinji knows this voice. Knows who it belongs to and isn't surprised to hear it.

Just like the rain, Shinji always dreams of Akira.

The ball hits racket strings to drop lifelessly to the ground as he turns.

And like blood on pavement, this canvas of grey is painted with vibrant red. Akira's hair burns like fire against the faded, rain-sodden newspaper of his dream and clings against pale but never white skin. Eyes aren't some forgettable shade of monochrome that melt into the background. Twin orbs of lapis-lazuli stare with exasperation back into his own and manage to convey thought better than words ever could. A black so different then the shades in his dream, banded with deep pink and white is worn with pride and Akira's arm holds aloft an umbrella the same colour as the storm clouds.

"Are you even listening to me?" Droplets fall from Akira's hair as he shakes his head, eyes rolling. Shinji wonders if he touches those sodden strands will they burn life into his numb fingertips, even if he can never truly feel in his dreams.

"I'm listening." Shinji recalls many conversations on which this scene could be replaying. "I won't pass out just because I'm playing in the rain. I've practiced in the rain before...so have you. We do it all the time together though I couldn't find you today and had to practice alone. And now I'm home asleep in my bed and warm and dreaming of something that probably has happened a thousand times before...it always rains. Even when we talked in sunshine it always rains and you are always so bright and everything else is always so grey..."

Shinji can't feel the rain anymore and he looks up to see Akira's umbrella hovering over his head. And Akira is right there, before him and Shinji can feel the heat from his body against his skin. One hand raises to his cheek, fingertips caressing the frigid skin.

And it burns.

"Idiot. You've been out in the rain too long. You're making no sense."

Shinji doesn't mention that Akira always accuses him of making no sense and just leans into that bright warmth, the only source of colour this world will ever allow him.

"You're so warm...like fire...just like your hair and everything else is black and white and grey but it's so red..."

But he can no longer speak because smiling lips are pressed against his own and he can no longer see the dull around him because all that exists is crimson and blue and flesh and Shinji drowns in the colour. He can taste a thousand more on Akira's lips and his tongue dances out to sample as many as he can...as many as this Akira will allow him.

He can no longer feel the cold seep into his skin.

Akira smiles as he pulls away, lips curved upwards in a grin. Shinji's gaze stays locked with his, a stray leaf drifting between them, jade green nested in the red of Akira's hair. Shinji reaches up to pluck it free and he sees the soft peach of his hand so pale against the green and the red. Blue/violet strands briefly flit across his vision as the wind rustles his hair and Shinji's gaze sweeps over the tennis court. The terracotta of the damp clay, the green of the grass, the yellow of the small patch of daisies clumped against the wire of the fence all greet his questing gaze. A pair of gold eyes flash briefly out from beneath a bench as a kitten dashes out from his haven against the rain and Shinji can never remember a dream so filled with colour.

"Dream? Shinji what are you talking about? You're standing out here in the rain and now you're mumbling about some dream? Come on."

A hand is pulling his own and he doesn't even reach down to retrieve his forgotten tennis ball, the lime coloured sphere left abandoned on the ground as the young man is dragged away. Shinji never even looks back, eyes still firmly fixed on the red of Akira's hair and the hand still entwined with his own.

Shinji's dreams are always filled with rain and Akira.

And sometimes, his reality is too.


End file.
